


all I know is a newfound grace (all my days I'll know your face)

by SoldiersTonight



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-08 09:43:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5492651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoldiersTonight/pseuds/SoldiersTonight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy's been buzzing his ex's apartment all week, asking her to take him back--except her apartment is one door over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all I know is a newfound grace (all my days I'll know your face)

Clarke’s intercom button is broken.

That’s how she’s justifying this turn of events. Her intercom button is broken so she can’t exactly stop this, can she? No, she can’t. That’s why she’s stuck listening to her neighbor’s ex-boyfriend pour his heart out to the wrong apartment _again_.

“I miss you, Roma. I miss the fun we used to have. I miss July 4th at your parents’ place. Remember that one time your brother spilled fruit punch all over my lap? I walked around looking like I’d pissed out red Kool-Aid for the rest of the night and you felt awful, but I was having fun. I was having _fun_ because I was with _you_.”

“She’s not even that great!” Clarke shouted, throwing a pillow at her door. She huffed, sinking lower onto the couch.

The first night it happened, Clarke blames her curiosity. He’d started with a reading of a super sappy poem, and Clarke kept listening to see if it would get worse—and it did. He moved on to songs that reminded him of her, and then it was his favorite memories they’d shared. Honestly, Clarke’s amazed he still has enough material to come back four nights in a row.

He sighs heavily into the intercom. “It’s hard to let you go when I know you’re living just a couple streets down from me. Please, please come back, Roma. I miss you.”

Clarke rolls her eyes.

She doesn’t know much about Roma’s boyfriend, but she’s known Roma since high school—and Clarke would be the first to tell you that Roma was the Regina George of their high school. It’s just about the worst coincidence ever that after being tormented by her in high school, Clarke gets to be neighbors with Roma years later.

Despite the fact that Roma’s about the most conniving person Clarke’s met, she has to appreciate the girl’s taste in boys. Lover boy is a real sweetheart and exceptionally loyal. Pre-breakup, Clarke had passed him once or twice on her way out, and he’d always had flowers or some other kind of chivalrous gift to present.

_“Love is thicker than forget/more thinner than recall—”_

“No, no, _no_ ,” Clarke screeched. She plopped facedown into the couch, covering her ears with the blanket. Clarke can’t handle another night of poetry. After this fiasco Clarke will probably never be able to listen to a single E.E. Cummings poem again.

_________________

“Are you dead?”

Clarke fights her way out of the blankets and pillows to glare at Raven. Her back cracks as she sits up and she winces at the sound.

“Shut up,” she growls. “It was fucking poetry night _again_.”

Raven snickers as she flops down beside Clarke.

“Why don’t you just tell him to skedaddle,” Raven suggests, jokingly.

“It’s too late,” Clarke moans. “If I tell him then he’ll know I’ve been listening to him for days now. Just imagine: ‘Hey, I’ve been listening to you beg your ex to come back to you for the past week, but now it’s getting annoying—scram’.”

“You’re just going to wait until he gives up and leaves?” Raven asks, arching an eyebrow at her.

“What else am I supposed to do?” Clarke asks defensively. “There’s nothing else _to_ do. We’re sitting ducks until he decides she’s not worth it. I mean—c’mon, it’s _Roma_. Roma’s terrible. Did I tell you about freshman year when she intentionally tried to kill me?” 

"She brought a peanut salad to school, and offered you a bite,” Raven says, unimpressed.

“I have a peanut allergy,” Clarke says hysterically.

Raven chuckles, shaking her head. She sits up suddenly, pulling Clarke up with her.

“Get up, crabby patty, we’re getting lunch,” Raven states, patting Clarke’s leg.

_________________

“It is most sane and sunly/ and more it cannot die/ than all the sky which only/ is higher than the sky,” Raven reads. She scrunches her nose in distaste and hands the phone back to Clarke. “Has he at least switched up the poet? E.E. Cummings gets a little monotonous after a while.”

“Nope,” Clarke said, popping the p. She snaps the menu shut. “He has a dedication to mediocre poets.”

“Lover boy is the topic of so many of our conversations, you should probably find out his name,” Raven says sipping her drink.

“It’s Bellamy,” a voice answers.

Raven chokes on her drink as Clarke whips around just in time to see Bellamy turn around to face them. He had the wildest hair Clarke had ever seen and his livid eyes sat behind a thick frame of glasses. She could see the faint tint of pink high on his cheeks—from either anger or embarrassment, that was up for interpretation.

“Can I have the check please?” Bellamy calls, flagging the waitress over. He stands up, sliding on his jacket, and Clarke turns back to Raven in a panic. Raven’s eyes have widened to the size of saucers, and she just shakes her head, shrugging her shoulders.

“Wait—wait!” Clarke exclaims, jumping up from her seat. She hisses as her knees hit the table in her haste. “Could you just hang on a second?”

Bellamy makes it one foot out of the restaurant before Clarke manages to snake a hand around his arm. He whirls around to face her, and pulls his arm free.

“What?” he spits.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” she replies, a little taken back by his anger. His jaw is set so tightly, she’s sure his teeth are going to crack. “Whatever you heard in there is only _half_ of the story.”

“So my ex _hasn’t_ been gossiping about my misery to the entire town?” he challenges.

Clarke rolls her lips as she debates telling him. Her shoulders drop in defeat. “It’s a lot worse than that, actually,” she says guiltily. She rubs her arms as a cold wind passes them.

He inhales sharply.

Bellamy’s eyes briefly close, and when he opens them, something about his eyes strikes a chord in Clarke’s heart.

“You’ve been buzzing the wrong apartment, Bellamy. And I didn’t tell you because…because you just seem so _sweet_ , and Roma’s just _not_ ,” Clarke confesses sheepishly.

“Do you even know her…?”

“Clarke.”

“Clarke,” he repeats, slowly testing the name on his tongue.

“And of course I know Roma. We’re neighbors. We went to high school together. We’ve been seeing each other’s faces for years. And I know her well enough to say that she doesn’t deserve someone like you,” Clarke insists.

“I _like_ Roma, okay? I don’t know why you thought it was appropriate to stick your hand into our relationship but I’d appreciate if you’d just—stop. It’s—It’s _embarrassing_ enough knowing that you heard—”

“Wait—you _like_ her? You’ve been reading her sappy poetry and begging her to come back to you all week and you don’t even _love_ her?” Clarke asks incredulously.

Bellamy freezes, his hand mid thrust in his hair. He swallows thickly, looking almost guilty before his mask of anger resurfaces. He opens his mouth to say something but closes it with a snap. His jaw twitches with frustration and Clarke’s afraid he’ll combust or something.

“It’s not really any of your business whether I love Roma or not,” he says with a note of finality. Clarke scoffs as he stomps away from her.

“It is if you keep buzzing my apartment,” Clarke shouts at his back. “Remember your girlfriend’s apartment number next time, asshole!”

_________________

Two days.

She made it two days before he came back.

“I need you,” Bellamy’s raspy voice called, coming through the intercom. “Please, please, _please_ let me in.”

Clarke looked disbelievingly at the intercom system. Her hand gripped the remote, barely containing herself from chucking it at the damn thing. She’d been nagging Kane to fix it, and he’s been promising to do so, but things like date night with Clarke’s mother have been keeping him preoccupied (“I’ll be on it as soon as possible, Clarke. I’ve got an important business meeting tonight—but soon.”)

Important business meeting her ass.

“Bellamy,” Clarke said, warningly, pressing the button. “Roma’s apartment is 22 _A_.”

“No, no, Clarke, I need _you_. Please let me up. Oh my god I can’t c-catch my breath and I’m going to need a smoke like any second now—God, if I smoke I’ll have to give back my 3 year medal to Nicotine Anonymous. It’s so goddamn cold—”

“Even if I wanted to I couldn’t buzz you up. My intercom system is broken,” Clarke replies evenly.

“Please,” he breathes.

Clarke balls her fists and exhales harshly, shaking her head.

_Don’t do it, Griffin. Don’t do it. Don’t do it._

“I’m coming down to let you in,” Clarke says begrudgingly. She tears open the door, stomping to the apartment’s main door.

_________________

“This is all of your fault,” Bellamy explodes frustratedly. They’d barely made it into her apartment, when he’d practically burst open. Clarke turns to face him, arching an eyebrow at him. “I have _never_ had a problem with not being in love until now. Until _you_. Until you and your little spiel. And now I keep thinking about the fact that my baby sister is getting married in a couple months and I’ve _never_   _even been in love before_.”

“You’ve never been in love?” Clarke asks surprised. “Ever?”

“No,” Bellamy says desperately. His chest was moving rapidly as he stood in front of her couch. “My sister’s been in love more times than I can count. She met the love of her life two years ago and now _they’re_ getting hitched next month. My roommate has been dating his boyfriend for four years. And I—I _thought_ I was in love, until I realized I wasn’t.”

His eyes have become unfocused and Clarke can suddenly see the raw panic and emotion rushing through his veins.

“Bellamy,” Clarke says, pity rolling off her in waves. She leans her head back against the doorway. Her brain scrambles for something to say that will have impact and substance. “That doesn’t matter. Romantic love is tedious and fleeting. You love your sister right? You love your friends, yeah? Those are the kinds of love that matter. Being _in_ love is overrated.”

He gives her a watery laugh.

“What if I _want_ to be in love?” Bellamy croaks. “What if I want to know what all the fuss is about?”

“You’re 26, not 90, Bellamy,” Clarke chuckles halfheartedly. “You have time.”

_________________

“So you used to smoke?” Clarke asks, balancing the wine glass on her stomach. She was feeling warm all over and everything was funny. Even the way a little bit of Bellamy’s drool was getting on to her couch.

“Yeah,” he replies, not opening his eyes. Bellamy was half on, half off the couch, barley holding his glass by the rim.

“What made you quit?”

“My mom died of lung cancer,” he said matter-of-factly. “Some would say that’s a bit of a deterrent.”

Clarke lets out a humorless chuckle.

“I got you,” she says. “I used to be really into hunting—and then my dad was shot on some trip with his hunting club. They ruled it as an accident, but, you know, you don’t accidentally shoot someone three times.”

There was an empty silence where Clarke thinks maybe she shared a little bit too much, but then Bellamy’s scoff cuts through the tension.

“Way to one-up me, Clarke,” he scoffs, jokingly.

Clarke grins, throwing an arm over her eyes.

“Don’t worry, Bellamy,” she says. “I’ll always be here to one-up you on your family miseries.”

He raises his glass, and she reaches her arm over to toast to it.

_________________

“I’m so drunk,” Bellamy laughs. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Come on,” Clarke urged impatiently. “You can do it.”

Bellamy wobbled slightly on the countertop. He chuckled, pressing his face against the cool wood of the cabinets.

“Oh. I like this. I should do my cabinets like this. It’s so soft and—wait, what cabinet is it in again?” Bellamy asks, looking down. Clarke giggled as his eyes crossed for a second.

“The last one on the right, on the tippy top shelf. That’s where I keep the really good chocolate.”

“Jesus, Clarke, why are they so high?”

“Didn’t you hear me they’re the really good choc—Bellamy!”

Clarke’s drunken mind couldn’t keep up with the sequence of events, but suddenly Bellamy was on the ground, holding the door of her cabinet in his hands.

“Clarke,” Bellamy hisses. “I think I just broke my ass.”

“I think you just broke my cabinet,” Clarke says in awe, eyeing the damage with wide eyes. “Oh, look! The chocolates!”

“I’ve got it! I’ve got it! Let me get them,” Bellamy exclaims, attempting to pop up from the ground. He suddenly groans, wincing, sitting back onto the ground slowly. “You got them. You got them, Clarke. You get them.” He motions quickly to her, before spreading himself out like a snow angel on her kitchen floor. “Did you know you have a couple skittles under your fridge?”

_________________

“Where did you find those poems anyways?”

“Is it really bad if I told you I just googled ‘E.E. Cummings poems about love?’”

Clarke’s whole body shook with laughter and she shook her head at Bellamy. They were lying in her bed facing each other. Their arms were tucked underneath the pillows, and the moonlight was providing a small spotlight on a quarter of Clarke’s face. Every time Bellamy spoke she could smell the chocolates they’d devoured an hour ago. Clarke had tied an icepack to Bellamy’s butt to ease the pain, but thirty minutes into it, he’d taken it off, complaining that his butt had gone numb.

“Oh that’s rich,” Clarke gasped, wiping the tears from her eyes.

“Shut up,” Bellamy says, playfully shoving her arm.

_________________

“Clarke,” Bellamy whispers, nudging her cheek with his knuckles.

“Yes, Bellamy,” Clarke says around a yawn, eyes already drooping.

“Thanks for making me feel better.”

“What are the nosy neighbors of your ex-girlfriend for?” she said, her eyelids fluttering shut.

“When we’re not such a mess, we should get coffee together,” he murmurs. “Just the two of us. Like a date.”

“Then maybe you’d see what all the fuss is about, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Goodnight Bellamy.”

“Goodnight, Clarke,” he replies. Then a few seconds later, “Don’t forget.”

**Author's Note:**

> BTS of this fic:  
> 1\. I wrote it. Had it edited and all.  
> 2\. My computer crashed.  
> 3\. I lost it.  
> 4\. I rewrote it in two days (YUP)  
> 5\. Here it is and I kind of dig it more than I did the first one. :)
> 
> Anyways, Merry Christmas to my secret santa! It's been such a whirlwind doing this for you! I'm actually really proud of how this turned out! I hope you like it and I'm looking forward to finally getting to chat with you w/o all the cloak and dagger! Wishing you the best holiday season!
> 
> (Title from 'Everything Has Changed' by Taylor Swift and Ed Sheeran)


End file.
